


coming home

by viscrael



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, Gen, Pirates, Relationship Study, a very sad gay bard with dead parents and a best friend whomst he loves very much, uhhhhhh i guess idk i just like them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 07:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11939472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viscrael/pseuds/viscrael
Summary: "Play something for me."i wrote fic for my own d&d character please kill me





	coming home

**Author's Note:**

> its 3 in the FCKING morning
> 
> lol markas and the rest of the crew die a few yrs post this and svens the only one to survive whaddup

There were long stretches of time where nothing happened, and everyone was left to their own devices. Still, the crew found ways to pass the time, and because of this, days on the Retribution were never genuinely _boring_. They were quiet, maybe—relaxed, slow. But Sven never found himself antsy for the next ship to pass or the next port city to dock at, even as the days dragged out and a few nights with nothing significant to do turned into weeks, and they still happened upon nothing.

Markas, though, was different. Unlike Sven, he was restless and impatient for the next adventure Abram would lead them on, never one for savoring the few quiet moments. The first couple of days hadn’t caused an issue, but it got so bad he was counting the days and making sure Sven knew very intimately how long it had been since their last taste of excitement, down to the hour sometimes. He spent most of his free time with Sven, alternating which of their cabinets they hung out in, usually dependent on whose cabin mate would be least bothered by their presence.

“Play something for me,” Markas demanded on the ninth day of their downtime. He laid on his back on Sven’s bed, his feet against the ship’s wall as he looked at Sven upside down.

Sven raised an eyebrow, glancing up from the book he was reading to look at his friend. When he’d joined the crew, Abram had taught him to read and given him a large sum of books to practice reading. It had been years since first learning, and Sven had devoured each and every one several times over. The novel he read now was one of his favorites, and this would be his eighth read-through, so he skimmed over the page even as he responded, “That’s not a very polite way to ask somebody to entertain them.”

“Oh, c’mon.” But when Sven returned to the book, Markas shifted so he was sitting up again and amended, “ _Please_ play something for me?”

Sven thought about it for a moment longer. Mostly it was to fuck with Markas. He’d made his mind up to indulge the request the first time it was asked of him, but making Markas wait for his answer was a pastime Sven enjoyed. Patience was a virtue Markas hadn’t picked up on yet, despite being raised by probably the world’s most patient man.

“Fine,” Sven said, closing his book. Markas perked up immediately, his face splitting into a grin. Sven returned the novel to its place under his bed with the rest of the books Abram had given him and pulled out the case he kept his flute in, flicking the brass lock up. The case was old and battered, but it did its job of keeping his flute safe, so he didn’t mind. While he assembled the instrument, he asked, “What song?”

"Anything,” Markas said. “I don’t care. Surprise me.”

Sven settled himself back up on the bed next to Markas, his back propped against the ship’s wall, and started to play. He’d only played one note when Markas spoke up again.

“Wait, actually, I have one in mind.”

Sven sighed, a little annoyed at being interrupted, but asked anyway, “Okay, what is it?”

"That one that you were playing the other day,” he said vaguely.

“What?”

“You know, the other day when you were at the quarterdeck with Abram and didn’t think anyone was paying attention.”

Sven felt his face burn. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you do, it went like…” Markas whistled a melody. It was a bastardized version, but Sven could still make out what it was meant to be. The song Markas wanted him to play was something Alida Kosmima, Sven’s mother, had taught him to play before her and her husband’s deaths. In his memories, his father sang along as she played, but no matter how hard he tried, he could never remember all the lyrics.

“Alright,” Sven agreed, and he brought the flute to his lips once again.

The moment he started playing, Markas’s restless energy seemed to dissolve. He leaned back against the wall and pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them as he watched Sven play. The melody was somehow both hopeful and melancholy, and despite how simple it was, Markas turned all of his attention to the music being played. He sat perfectly still, watching, and Sven tried to ignore him for fear he would mess up the song if he didn’t.

When the last note was played, Sven lowered his flute, and for one long moment, there was silence. A veil had fallen over them. When Sven played his parents’ music, some part of him seemed to disappear from himself, given back to a time he could barely remember now. When those three minutes were up and the song ended, he didn’t come immediately back to himself, but lingered in that space between the present and the past, until the silence was broken by the sound of Markas’s sharp intake.

“That was great,” he said, smiling gently, like he could tell that Sven wasn’t entirely back yet. There was no way he could know that song was one the Kosmima’s used to sing together, but Markas had always been much better at reading people than Sven. He seemed to know intuitively just what to say and do when others needed space, even if he didn’t realize consciously that was what he was doing.

“Thanks.” Sven rested the flute in his lap.

Markas leaned his head on top of his knees as he looked at his friend, his dark hair falling over his shoulders with the movement. “What’s it called?” he asked.

“’Darling, I’m Coming Home.’”

“Sappy.”

Sven rolled his eyes, and like that, he’d returned to himself completely. “You’re the one that wanted to hear it so badly.”

“That’s true.” Markas was still smiling, his signature expression. “I’m glad you played it for me. Why’s it named that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are there lyrics that go with it?”

“Yeah,” Sven said, “but I don’t remember all of them.”

“Well, what _do_ you remember?”

 He couldn’t say he was known for his singing, but he mumbled the lyrics.

 

“ _I’m coming home_

_Please don’t cry_

_Because I ain't gonna be dying_

_I’m coming home to you_ ”

 

He remembered vaguely his father’s voice, deep and smooth like honey as he sang with his mother’s flute and his own lyre, and he could just barely remember that his mother sang accompanying harmonies some nights when she forwent her flute. In his memories her voice was just as sweet, but if someone asked him to imitate it or describe exactly the sound of her singing, he couldn’t tell them. Memories were tricky that way—sometimes only distant impressions when what he wanted was concrete sounds, concrete words, something more tangible to give to others. The most tangible thing remaining that Sven still had were the songs themselves, and he thanked what little luck he had that he remembered even those.

“Oh,” Markas said. “Can you play it again?”

The request seemed silly, but with little else to do, Sven humored his friend once again. The second play through was smoother, as he was warmed up now. It was only when he got to what would be the chorus that he realized why Markas asked him to play it again.

It was a little off, and Markas was not the best singer, but he did his best to imitate the chorus Sven had sung for him while the music played. With no other lyrics to sing, he repeated what he knew twice before Sven finished the song for the second time.

“Maybe I can make something new up,” Markas offered. “You know, since that’s all you remember. I’ll try to fill in the blanks.”

Sven nodded, not able to say anything. He wasn’t sure what it was about that offer that got to him, but he found himself at a loss for what to say. So he only nodded a second time, and watched as Markas smiled at him for the hundredth time that evening.

The days dragged on.

**Author's Note:**

> pls smash a barrel over my head killing me instantly
> 
> i pulled the song lyrics right outta my ass


End file.
